


Too Hard to Talk

by joeschmuckatelli



Category: Homestuck
Genre: No worries, Other, i can still spew some shit, in the middle of the night, no sleep, wooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeschmuckatelli/pseuds/joeschmuckatelli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since when was it so hard to talk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Hard to Talk

You didn’t know. You were sorry. 

Everything had been swept into a whirlwind of light and noise. The sound of crunching metal scraping against asphalt rings in your ears; sunlight glimmers as it reflects off the shimmering slivers of glass that shatter on impact. You see a wide expanse of brown moving towards you. Moving towards you quickly. Moving too fast. 

Everything is enveloped in white. White noise, white static, white haze— nothing is clear or coherent. You groan; you shudder. There’s movement at your side, a wailing sort of noise; this upsets you. You groan louder, trying to cradle your head— God, your aching head, what’s even wrong why does everything hurt where are you what’s going on

All of consciousness fades back into white static. At first your muscles are tensed, panic searing your veins with adrenaline; then, a calm seeps into your system, quiets your nerves. It is similar to the sensation of sinking into a bath of warm milk, white and thick and soothing. You aren’t sure when you fall asleep. 

By the third time you awaken in such a manner, most of he haze has left you. It still feels as though there is something in the way, an inhibitor of sorts that is withholding important information from you. As you stir, you attempt to sit up gently, but your movements are jerky, careless— what happened to your control? It feels as though nothing is working the way it should, nothing is responding right; when you try to move your arm an inch, it moves three. 

The wailing noise is at your side again, this time much more muted. You cringe, managing to jerkily sit upright, only for a wave of discomfort and dizziness to wash over you. Wearily, you allow yourself to flop back down on the pillow. Wait, pillow? Where are you? You can feel panic rising— panic you don’t understand, panic that only makes you even more uncomfortable— and the sensation of being helpless wells up within you, weighing in your chest like a leaden weight. 

“Shhh, shh shh shh, Tuna babe I’m here…” The voice is soft, cooing, comforting; you can sense the panic leaving you as a warm hand strokes your hair, gently smoothing it out. You’re trying to focus on the source of the voice, but nothing looks right. Everything is out of focus and hazy; everything is edged in a white fuzz and just looks… wrong. “It’s chill babe, don’t panic, I’m here…” An onslaught of memories attacks you. 

Teal glasses skating radical red sweet long hair dark helmet girl gaming eyes words tongue passion love

love

You love

who do y—

“… Th… Thoo.. luh…” The name is awkward in your mouth, tasting bitter, feeling as though your mouth was full of marbles and your tongue had gone numb. A choked sob comes from her this time. 

“Oh God Mituna you finally said— said something, Jesus I c-can’t…” You can hear her break down into sobs and hiccups. You think you’re frowning. Why was she upset you were talking? Of course you would talk. 

“Tula bay.. bay-buh..” These words are almost worst than the last. Since when was it so hard to talk? 

” ‘M fine… don’ cry babe..” you stammer out, fighting with each individual syllable. 

She doesn’t respond; the silence that settles in is thick and unsettling. You shift awkwardly, and for the first time you feel the gentle tug of wires in your arms, your hands, your chest. Its unpleasant. You feel uncomfortable. 

Eventually she lifts her head, taking either side of your own in her hands. Her eyes suddenly come into focus, bright, glimmering green, blood shot from crying, glistening bright with unshed tears. She leans forward, gingerly, and places a light kiss on your forehead.

“I love you.”

You’re confused now. 

Then, someone else enters the room— you can see a blurry figure moving behind her— and you wonder who they are and what they’re doing here. They speak, but everything sounds like its passing through a filter, bouncing back at you from fifty feet away. Eventually your ears tune in, and you catch a snippet here and there. 

“ain damage severe an

Mister Captor is recovering physic

ay or may not recover mentall

ut therapy is an opt

on’t give up hope, Ms. Pyrope.” 

The nurse leaves. Latula turns to you, and her expression is clear enough that you can read the grief, the panic that has stricken her. You feel like you want to cry.

“I’m th-rthorry, T-T-Tula.”

You didn’t know. You were sorry. 

So, so sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I miss doing little snippets like this.


End file.
